


The Sword-bearer’s Daughter

by Unreal_Kitty



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Father Figures, Gen, Mid-Canon, POV Sansa Stark, POV Theon Greyjoy, Pre-Canon, Sins of the Father, Stark childhood, Theon Greyjoy-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:08:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23912818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unreal_Kitty/pseuds/Unreal_Kitty
Summary: Theon is a hostage of Winterfell for most of his life, in one way or another. He runs away only twice. Once, in fear of a sword named Ice. And once, in defiance of a fate worse than losing one’s head. Each time, he is rescued by the sword-bearer’s daughter...in her own way.Filling the “runaway” prompt for the March 2020 Theonsa challenge
Relationships: Theon Greyjoy & Ned Stark, Theon Greyjoy & Sansa Stark, Theon Greyjoy/Sansa Stark
Comments: 11
Kudos: 66
Collections: Theonsa Challenge 2020





	1. Theon

Theon’s last thought was of his mother before the blade fell. 

The Lady Alannys. It had been years since he’d last heard her warm voice, years since he’d last felt her fair hair brush against his skin. Perhaps she was only a dream and had never existed at all. 

And yet, she must have been real. For she was of the Time Before, that world of seasalt and song. And if that world was but a dream, then Theon wouldn’t be here now on his knees, waiting for the greatsword to slice through his neck. 

The grass was cool and wet. It stained his breeches green. The air was cool as well, more than merely cool, but frozen, the kind of chill that saps all the will from your bones. He shivered. Here in the North, all breezes blow to chill, even in summertime. 

Theon wondered if Ice’s bite against his skin would feel as cold as its name implied. It, like he, was wrapped in a Northman’s clothes, its scabbard made of a wolf’s pelt as thick and dense as the fur mantle about Theon’s thin shoulders. 

Then again, perhaps the steel would burn hot. After all, it, like he, was not of the frigid North. The enchanted metal (so said Old Nan) was forged in dragonfire in a faraway land, a land as distant and faded as a dream. 

The hiss of the blade as it sliced through the air told Theon he would soon find out. 

He wondered if his mother would weep when the raven came with news of his death. He thought maybe she would, if she remembered him after all this time. He tried to imagine what her voice would sound like when she’d cry. He could only remember her song. 

The blade was taking an eternity to connect. It screamed in his mother’s voice. Ice, his birth and doom at once. 

Theon’s eyes snapped open. 

There was no grass, no icy wind. Most importantly, there was no greatsword coming for his head. The Lord Eddard Stark was not coming for him tonight. 

The boy choked out a strangled sob. His bare chest was drenched in sweat beneath the heavy blankets of his bed. He hurled them away in disgust, then curled forward, burying his head as he wrapped shaking hands through his mass of red curls. 

Three nights of this, this same terrible dream. They first started after his recent lesson with Maester Luwin. He and Robb and Jon all gathered around the desk with the map of all of Westeros unfurled. Theon had been so excited. He was to be a knight, one day, a pirate prince, and would soon adventure the length and breath of this land. 

And then the history lesson began. Theon had been so keen to learn of the war for the kingdom, the clash of dragon and stag that razed a world to the ground so that a new one could rise in its place. _What is dead may never die,_ he had thought. A tale worthy of the ironborn. 

He had been far less keen when the subject turned to the Greyjoy Rebellion. Theon couldn’t remember much of it, he had been so young. And true, the Maester did not linger on his older brother’s deaths and his lord father’s shame. But he did not hold back in discussing the “arrangement,” as he put it, the parlay that had followed in the wake of Balon's defeat. 

Theon had known the _contours_ of the arrangement, of course, he had lived it. But the bright imagination of a young lad had burned away the harsh edges. When he left for Winterfell that day, so long ago, he had dreamed of adventure, of a young prince called upon to represent his people. A Ward of Winter who would perhaps grow to be a knight. 

Ward, they had called him, as he clamored onto the ship. _Hostage_ , sighed the maester, as he explained the deal of service and steel. Suddenly, Ned Stark was Lord Eddard, and Ice was not a shiny plaything for Theon to beg a glimpse of, but the boy’s own doom, should his father stray. 

Maester Luwin was not unkind when he delivered his lesson. He assured Theon that Balon would not risk his last son, his heir, for yet another hopeless bid for independence. And besides, he said, the Islands were better off a member of the Seven Kingdoms, with access to the vast riches of the other lands. 

“When you return to the Iron Islands to rule as their lord, you will lead your people to a new age of prosperity,” the old master said. 

But while Theon nodded and carefully plastered an agreeable smile onto his face, he could not escape the ghost of the Greatsword. It followed him to the training yard, where Robb grazed him with a wooden practice sword. It followed him to the Great Hall, where Maester Luwin whispered something into Lord Eddard’s ear, and his captor stared at him with pity in his eyes. 

And it followed him to his dreams, one exhausting night after another. After three days, Theon could stand it no longer. He leapt out of bed with a growl, kicking away the blankets he had tossed to the floor. After lighting a candle with a trembling hand, he hurried over to a heavy, wooden chest, hurled open the lid, and started gathering supplies.

A spare blanket...flint for a campfire...a set of cutlery. Practical items for the journey ahead. Theon looked mournfully at the possessions strewn about his room. A few books, interesting stones he had gathered with Robb by the stream, an ornately-crafted falconer’s glove. 

_I can’t take it all with me,_ he thought. _What do I need to get home?_ Home to Pyke. Hundreds of leagues lay between Theon and the Iron Islands, and most of it wilderness at that. Summer it may be, but the sun’s warm beams never quite reached the floor of the Wolfswood. He pulled on his warmest cloak over a plain tunic and breeches, and carefully wrapped his finest doublet around a few gold coins and a few other valuables that could buy him passage on a ship. 

He knew he must travel dressed plainly to avoid the attention of highwaymen and bandits, but the Others take him if he returned to Pyke as anyone but Theon of House Greyjoy. 

_Plainly and warmly_ , he thought, adding an extra cloak to his pack. It wouldn’t do to escape wolves only to be brought down by the cold. 

With a resolute sigh, Theon thrust his dagger into his belt, shoved on his boots, and hurried out the door. 


	2. Sansa

Sansa shivered as she hurried toward the stables. It was late, too late for a young lady to be up and about, especially on her own. But it was not every day that one gets to witness a new foal take its first steps. 

Just that morning, Hullen the Stablemaster had promised to send a messenger once the baby arrived, and Sansa was eager to meet the newborn. She just wished her mare had chosen a more respectable time to foal. 

The night breeze cut through her clothing. Although Sansa had fully dressed before leaving her warm chambers (sneaking out to the stables was one thing, sneaking out in her nightclothes was another thing entirely), she had forgotten a cloak in her excitement. Wrapping her arms tightly around herself, she rushed across the courtyard and slipped through the stable door. 

“Ah, there you are, milady,” said Hullen. “You’re just in time.”

“Juniper’s had her baby?”

“A little over an hour ago. A fine little lad.”

Sansa peered into the stall. The roan mare was peacefully watching a small, damp foal, all spindly legs and enormous eyes. 

She smiled as the newborn clamored up before toppling over. Suddenly a gust of cool air swept through the room as the door swung open. 

Theon stood in the doorway, a look of shock upon his face. Clearly, he hadn’t expected to run into anyone else at this time of night.

“Ah, master Greyjoy,” said Hullen in an amiable tone. “What brings you here at this late hour?”

Theon opened his mouth, and seemed to freeze. “Uh, I…” Sea-glass eyes met Sansa’s, as helpless as Juniper’s foal. 

“He’s here for me,” rescued Sansa. She laughed. “Gallant Theon, always playing the knight.

I was already halfway here before I realized I had forgotten my cloak. Luckily I bumped into one of the boys’ attendants and asked him to dash over to the nearest room to borrow an extra.”

She turned to Theon. “You didn’t need to come yourself!” The subtlest of winks galvanized the boy out of his stunned silence. 

“Nonsense, my lady. Here.” He pulled his spare cloak from his pack and wrapped it around Sansa’s shoulders. It was far too long for her, and the sleeves dangled loosely, hiding her hands. 

“Thank you.” Sansa raised one eyebrow, and when she was sure Hullen wasn’t looking, she widened her eyes as if to say, “What on Earth is going on?”

Theon’s eyes flicked away guiltily. He stared at his boots. Odd, she thought. _He’s normally so confident._ For as long as she could remember, the older boy always walked around with brash air and a knowing smile. To find him so off balance...well, it was certainly new. 

“Theon,” Sansa started in a whisper. A sudden nicker rang throughout the stables and cut her off. Riptide, Theon’s gelding, poked his dark head out of his still to greet his master. Lunging at the chance to evade an explanation, Theon hurried over and scratched the horse’s long nose. 

“Hey there, mate. Couldn’t sleep either, huh?” Sansa caught Theon’s gaze as he snuck a sideways glance toward her. “I know, I know, you’d love to go out for a run, but…” he trailed off, thinking. “But it’s late, and perhaps we’re all better off in our beds tonight.”

He patted the gelding’s muscular neck with an air of finality. “I’ll come back in the morning. We can go for a ride then. Everything is...everything is kinder, in the morning.”

One last scratch and he turned on his heel to go. 

“Theon.” Sansa started again. He halted beside her. She peered into his eyes. _Are you alright?_ she thought. “Thank you again for the cloak. My savior.”

He smiled at her. It was a different sort of smile than the usual smirk. Grateful, relieved. “Not at all. Enjoy the foal.” With that, he opened the heavy door and vanished. 

“Strange lad,” Hullen remarked. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sansa knocked three times on Theon’s door, his thick cloak draped over her other arm. 

For a moment, no one answered. She wondered if he had slipped out in the night after all. Something unpleasant curled deep inside her chest, and with great effort, she forced it down with a swallow. 

_He’s annoying and irritating and a bit of a prat,_ she thought. _Still…_

It was just that Theon had always been around, for her entire life. A permanent fixture as inevitable as winter and as solid as Winterfell’s stone walls. It wasn’t that she particularly _liked_ having him there (in fact, there had been many a hair-tugging, prank-receiving day when she actively did not), but that he just _was_. 

There was a certain comfort in knowing that Greyjoy cad was around, with his keen, dancing eyes and his sharp tongue and his irreverent mischief. It kept one on one’s toes. 

And besides, when the mood took him Theon told the most wonderful stories. Tales of bold knights and dashing lovers and many, many piratical rogues. Sometimes he’d even sing of them, in a haunting ballad or a dissonant yet lively Ironborn tune. 

No. Between his seemingly endless store of tales and his boyish pranks that Sansa pretended offended her as befitting a young lady, she was never bored when Theon Greyjoy was around. 

If he vanished....Sansa frowned and knocked on the foot again, her breath caught in her throat. 

The door swung open. 

“Oh! Sansa.” He sounded surprised, but not unpleasantly so. His hair was a tousled mass of curls flying this way and that. Morning light from the window behind him struck his head, turning auburn strands to flame-gold..

_He looks like some devilish prince_ , she thought, then shook the unbidden thought away. 

She didn’t want him to vanish, but he was still Theon Greyjoy. Her big brother’s obnoxious friend. 

“I..I wanted to return your cloak,” she started.

“Thanks.”

“No, thank you for bringing it last night.”

Theon raised one eyebrow. “You covered for me. You made that story up to Hullen so I wouldn’t get in trouble.”

“Well, yes.”

He cocked his head to one side, light dancing in his heavily-lashed eyes. “You _lied_ for me. What would Septa Mordane say?”

“Well I wouldn’t call it a lie. A fib maybe, and a tiny one at that.”

A sly grin erupted on his face. “Why, little Sansa Stark, I’m impressed.”

Sansa glowered at him. “Oh shut up.” She shoved the cloak into his arms. “Here. Take this so I can go back to bed.”

He accepted the cloak, and peered at her with a thoughtful expression. “Wait don’t go yet.”

Sansa hesitated. Theon glanced around, as though to ensure they were alone in the hallway and would not be overheard. 

“Thank you for fibbing for me. You saved me...a lot of trouble last night.”

Sansa nodded then frowned, meeting his eyes. “Theon, what were you-“

“I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Oh.” Sansa chewed her bottom lip. “Can I come in?”

“You propose to enter a boy’s chambers, one who is not your brother, alone?” He said in mock admonishment. Why Sansa, first the fibs and now this. I do wonder what’s come over you.”

“Oh, like you count,” she retorted, shouldering her way inside. 

She glanced around the room. Despite her protests, Theon was an unrelated boy and she had never been inside his chambers before. They were messy, with spare socks strewn about the floor. She rolled her eyes. She noticed the room was piled with books, more than she would have expected given Theon’s reputation. 

A small kraken was carved into the wall above the bed. 

“Did you make that yourself?

“Yeah.” Strangely, he didn’t look at her when he answered. 

“Do you ever miss it?

“Miss what?

“Home?”

“Oh. Theon sat down on the bed and traced a finger over the carving. “Sometimes.”

Sansa glanced at the cloak in his arms. Her eyes drifted to a pack tossed on the floor near the bed, its mouth still open. “Is that where you were heading last night?”

Theon leapt to his feet. “Who says I was going anywhere?”

“Relax, Theon, I’m not going to tell.”

“I told you before, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine, we won’t then.” Sansa stood and headed toward the door, then paused. “I’m not saying you’re planning on going anywhere. But if you decide to, you can’t leave tomorrow.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“I need you to take me riding tomorrow afternoon.”

“Huh? Couldn’t Robb or Jon take you?”

“No, it has to be you.”

“Wh—”

“My brothers can’t teach me, we’ll just get annoyed at each other and argue. But you have to be nice to me.”

“I do, do I?”

“Yes, or else I’ll tell everyone that you’re reading—,” she plucked a book from his nightstand. “ _The Love Song of Ianthe and The Sword of the Morning_ ,” she read off the cover.

Theon’s eyes were two enormous round pools of seawater. “You wouldn’t.”

Sansa’s eyes blazed. “Tomorrow afternoon. After lunch.”

She spun on her heel, then paused, halfway out the door. “And Theon?”

“Yes?”

“This is going to be a weekly activity. In fact, I believe I will need your accompaniment on my rides for the foreseeable future.”

“You’re mad! No way am I—”

“Oh, Robb!” she called in a sing-song voice. 

“Fine! Fine! You win!” He threw himself on his bed in a dramatic flop. 

“Just the same, I’m going to hang onto this.” She waved the book in the air. “For extra insurance.”

Theon groaned. “I was wrong. You aren't mad, you’re evil.”

Sansa beamed at him. Theon rolled his eyes, but she could spot the corners of his lips twitch upward. 

“See you later, Greyjoy.”

“Wait, Sansa?”

“Yes?” 

“Thanks.”

She nodded her head in a tiny bow, then breezed away.


	3. Runaways

The cold slammed through Theon’s lungs with each desperate breath. Snow coated his clothes, his face, numbing his leg where he had injured it in the jump. 

The only warmth he could feel was Sansa’s hand in his. 

_Crunch! Crunch!_ The snow crackled with every labored footstep. It reminded Theon of the sound of snapping bones. He thought of Ramsey and his many...devices. He thought of Miranda as she shattered on the courtyard floor.

He picked up his pace. _If he catches us…._

“Theon, wait!” Sansa’s voice was the wind in a dream. “I can’t keep up.”

“You can,” he assured her. “Come on, I’ve got you.” _In this game of bones, you run or you die._

He glanced back at Winterfell. With each desperate step, it shrunk. Only slightly, but it shrunk. 

_I’m finally doing this,_ he thought. _Running away._

He remembered a night, back in his youth ( _so long ago, a thousand years ago, back in the age of heroes_ ). It wasn’t as cold as it was today, back when summer reigned supreme. But still, the chill chewed his exposed fingers. 

He remembered fleeing a dream of Lord Eddard Stark, with Ice poised above his head. How he wished, more than anything, for Ned to be here, now, with Ice in his hand. 

_Ned would have my head, if he met me now. But at least...at least he would take it in payment for my own actions, and not for my father’s crimes._

It occured to Theon, as he crashed through snowdrifts, clutching onto Sansa’s hand like a lifeline, that Ned Stark would likely not have slain a child for the sins of his father. Not even Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell. Surely, he would have found some other way to punish Balon for his treachery, Theon was sure of it now. 

He had to believe it. In these last few years, Theon had seen true horror and had suffered true evil. Neither had lived in the wolf lord’s heart. Ned might not have known it himself, Ned, who distanced himself yet always returned, with a paternal lesson, with a cloth to clean a scraped knee. He was a tide ebbing and flowing, always returning to the same spot despite himself. Theon could see it now. 

No, perhaps Ned hadn’t known any more than Theon had, that he would have spared him. But Theon knew now. If only he had known back then. 

And if Ned were here, then Sansa would make it. He knew she would. The North would rally to Ned Stark’s aid once more, and Sansa would be rid of the Ma—of Ramsey forever. 

Theon’s lip twitched slightly. _I would gladly give my head to buy Sansa’s safety._ He glanced at her. Despite her protests, she was keeping pace with him, her eyes fixed in front of her with the focus of a falcon before it takes a predatory dive. The bruises on her skin were purple islands on a white sea. 

He grimaced, and wondered if any gods were around to witness his pleas. He knew his own had long forsaken him. _My head, my heart, whatever’s left of me. I’ll give them all._

Perhaps then, he’d find a little peace. 

Far away a dog bayed, and Theon fought back a wail of despair. _If only Ned were here, with Ice and an army of better men than I._

For Theon was swordless and friendless and, should Ramsey reach them, he feared he’d be nameless as well. 

_No!_ he railed. He remembered Sansa and the little wobbly foal. Sansa, conspiring against the stablemaster. Sansa, older, battered, but unbroken, grasping him by the shoulders. 

“Your name is Theon Greyjoy,” she had said, “Last living son of Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands. Do you hear me?”

_Do you hear that, Ned Stark? My name is Theon Greyjoy. Your daughter gave it back to me._

The sword-bearer’s daughter, with her hair like fire. 

The cold cut through his throat like Ice. 

_You won’t have my head, Ned. But I’ll give my warmth, I can do that, and gladly._

The dog bayed again, and Sansa squeezed his hand. White puffs of vapor exploded from her mouth with each panting breath. He imagined he could hear her heartbeat. 

_I will keep her warm. As long as I can, I will keep her warm._

**Author's Note:**

> As always, a huge thank you to my dear friend Harry Dresden for her invaluable brainstorming, idea-bouncing, editing, and overall willingness to listen to me blather on about my OTP for hours. She's been with me the whole way.


End file.
